Sarah Canary Page 21

  ‘You don’t have to stay here just for me,’ B.J. told Chin. ‘I’m probably going to be swimming in to shore myself soon.’

  ‘I know,’ said Chin. ‘I will, too.’

  ‘I’m just waiting for the trees to get a little bigger.’ B.J. tried to guess how far out the canoe was. Three hundred feet? ‘I’m just going to give Purdy and Sam time to get the fire started.’ He searched the water for signs of shadows and reflections. He searched the clouded sky for smoke. Nothing. ‘How long does it take clams to cook?’ he asked.

  ‘Not long,’ said Chin.

  ‘Of course, Old Patsy’ll have to dig them first,’ B.J. said. Raindrops puddled in the spaces between his knuckles and ran down his arms. They hung from the tip of his nose. ‘I’ll let you know before I go,’ B.J. promised Chin.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Chin.

  vii

  The routes of several steamboats known collectively as the Mosquito Fleet lay across the waters of Hood Canal and Puget Sound. The Phantom ran to Seabeck; the Zephyr between Tacoma and Olympia; the Eliza Anderson, whose deck was mounted with her own calliope and whose coming could therefore be heard for miles, ran the international mail route; and the Enterprise carried passengers between Victoria and New Westminster. The routes and functions of these boats changed periodically, but the boats themselves worked until they sank, and then afterward many of them were raised to work again.

  The perils for the boats were frequent and varied. The Fairy was the first of many to sink when her boiler exploded. The Sea Bird was destroyed by fire. The Peacock ran onto the sands of Cape Disappointment. The Zephyr went under while in dock when a Swedish logger, recently hired as a fireman, left the hoses running to her water tanks and sank her with the weight of the extra water.

  The Capital was returning to Olympia from the oyster beds when her chief engineer, Indian Vic, realized the injector was no longer operating. Halo chuck skookum kettle! Alki hiyu pooh! Nika klatawa! he told the captain. ‘There is no water in the boiler. Soon there will be a big explosion. I am leaving.’ He dove over the side, followed by the rest of the crew, but the explosion did not come. The unpiloted ship continued on, eventually running herself into the mud flats at low tide, very close to her home dock.

  The Eliza Anderson floundered at Deception Pass. Her captain, Captain Fitch, ordered eight head of cattle thrown overboard and then dumped seven pianos until the steamer righted herself and limped into Seattle with all the passengers and a shipload of whiskey intact. The company agent questioned the decision to dump the pianos and save the whiskey. ‘Can you drink pianos?’ Captain Fitch asked incredulously.

  The passengers retired to the nearest saloon to celebrate their survival. They drank a toast to the pianos and the music they made, hitting the water. ‘Like a host of angels was playing the keys,’ one of the passengers said, his glass raised. ‘And the wind blowing and the cattle all bellowing. By God, it was glorious.’

  14

  Emmaline Recites Lear

  The Leaves like Women interchange

  Exclusive Confidence

  Emily Dickinson, 1865

  The steamboat captains were the heroes this hazardous life required. They dressed the part: uniforms with epaulets, caps with gold braid, loud, loud voices, full beards or broad handlebar mustaches. Captain Wescott had all of the above and the command of the eccentric, tubby little steamer that ran between Seattle and Tacoma as well. The steamer was named the Lotta White, but she was known to the locals, affectionately, as the Pumpkin, because of her size and her speed.

  Those boats whose routes confined them to the sheltered waters of the Sound tended to be flat-bottomed stern-wheelers, but the Pumpkin had side wheels and a walking-beam engine. Her colors were white and black and brass. When she ran, she poured black smoke and white steam into the air above her. Her paddle buckets roared, churning the black water to a white wake that followed her like a bright shadow as she pulled out of Port Gamble and throbbed her way toward the Pacific. Adelaide Dixon was written on the Pumpkin’s register in a slanting hand. Followed by an oddly shaped blot. A smear. And nurse. It was the best Adelaide could come up with. If Lydia was recognized as Lydia, of course, the game was up. If she was recognized as the Alaskan Wild Woman or if Adelaide was recognized, then considerable confusion would result, but some fanciful story could perhaps be concocted and then Adelaide’s own name, right there on the register, might ultimately satisfy everyone. And if neither was recognized, then Lydia could pass as Adelaide and Adelaide could be the nurse. This was what Adelaide anticipated. She had no illusions of influence or renown in this territorial mudhole.

  Adelaide sat with Lydia in the captain’s own cabin. The communal passenger cabin was, of course, out of the question for Lydia. Adelaide had demanded a private space, which was provided for them out of deference to Lydia’s obvious frailty and, perhaps, an unspoken concern that whatever made her so odd might be contagious. Adelaide sat in their tiny quarters and sang to Lydia to keep her calm. Lydia did not seem to notice or, in fact, to be particularly upset. She’d drawn a great deal of attention to herself during the hours they spent in Port Gamble waiting for the steamer, and especially as they were crossing the gangplank onto the Pumpkin. She picked and fretted at the dark net Adelaide had made her wear over her face until her hands had to be held, all the while making throaty noises of displeasure and resistance. ‘Is she ill?’ asked a tall young woman on the deck, validating the ruse Adelaide had chosen to adopt. The woman stood under a black umbrella with a carved ivory handle. A pretty little blond girl, ten years old perhaps, or eleven, and obviously her daughter, held her mother’s skirt with one hand and felt outside the shelter of the umbrella for rain with the other. The raindrops sounded on the umbrella like the ticking of a clock.

  ‘She’s making funny noises,’ the little girl pointed out, staring at Lydia’s veiled face.

  ‘Emmaline!’ Her mother rebuked her quietly.

  ‘She is,’ Emmaline insisted.

  ‘It’s not something a nice little girl would notice.’ The woman contrived to frown at her daughter and smile at Adelaide simultaneously.

  ‘Yes,’ said Adelaide shortly, hurrying Lydia past them. ‘She is very ill.’ Lydia made a sound like a seal. ‘And developing a nasty cough. I’m taking her to a specialist in San Francisco. I only hope we get there in time. Come here, dear.’ Adelaide addressed Lydia in a careful public voice. ‘We must get you out of the damp.’

  ‘Aakk,’ said Lydia. ‘Awk. Kk-kk-kk.’

  Adelaide would have liked to stand out on deck after signing the register, watch the rest of the passengers board, and assure herself that there had been no pursuit out of Seabeck. But she was afraid either to leave Lydia alone or to take Lydia with her. Lydia sat on the bed and faced the wall while the boat shuddered out of its dock. Adelaide tried to relax. Her emotions were particularly unsteady; bouts of the joy she had felt upon leaving Seabeck alternated with doubts and anxieties. She had just begun her monthly bleeding, which was especially difficult to deal with while traveling. Her luggage was back in Seabeck. She had no change of clothing, no place to clean up, no bucket for her used menstrual rags, and no menstrual rags except for those she had just made, tearing up the bottom of her petticoat. She felt heavier than usual; the heaviness concentrated itself into something in her abdomen that was not really a pain but nagged at her unpleasantly. Adelaide wished there were room to lie down. She let herself think about San Francisco. Baths. Dressmakers. Hot and cold running water. In the tiny cabin, she was acutely conscious of the smell of her bleeding, a mineral sort of smell, an animal sort of smell. Not a smell she had ever liked.

  Adelaide sang to the back of Lydia’s neck, which was not really very clean, to her short, rumpled hair, to the buttons down the back of her dress. She noticed suddenly that the buttons seemed to be ornamental only, and puzzled over this as she sang. The dress was tight around Lydia’s neck. How did Lydia get in and out of it? ‘“Twas there as the blackbird was che
erfully singing, I first met that dear one, the love of my heart.”’ The silent space between my and heart was filled unexpectedly with the sound of a fist thumping on the door. Adelaide’s voice dropped and then stopped. Knock, knock, knock went her heart. Why would anyone need to see her now? They were less than fifteen minutes out of dock.

  Adelaide took the two steps between herself and the door but did not open it. ‘Who’s there?’ she asked.

  ‘Captain’s compliments,’ a man outside answered. ‘And could he speak with you below, please? We’ve picked up a bit of a problem and the captain is hoping you might help.’

  Adelaide stood at the closed door. She believed there were going to be more arguments about the cabin. A request to share perhaps with the angelically golden-haired Emmaline. Adelaide had thought that the other travelers in the passenger cabin would only last a little while with Emmaline before the idea of closeting her with someone who might possibly be contagious occurred to them. Well, Adelaide had stormed the captain’s cabin herself and she would hold it. No one could get in if the door never opened. ‘What sort of problem?’

  ‘I think Captain Wescott would prefer to explain himself. If you don’t mind. He could attend you here if necessary.’

  ‘That would be preferable,’ said Adelaide. ‘I don’t wish to leave my invalided companion alone.’ No further sounds came from beyond the door. Adelaide went back to the bed. This problem, she told herself, had to do with the cabin and not with Lydia. No one could have possibly recognized Lydia. No one had seen her face. Adelaide sang now to calm herself. ‘“Twas there as the blackbird was cheerfully singing . . .”’ She couldn’t remember what came next. She tried again. ‘“Twas there . . .”’

  ‘Captain Wescott,’ a loud masculine voice through the door informed her. ‘Begging your pardon. Begging your indulgence.’

  ‘My companion is quite ill,’ Adelaide said. ‘Is it really necessary to disrupt her rest in this way?’

  ‘Quite necessary. Quite unexpected. I am sorry. But it’s you I need to talk to. With your permission. If you’ll just step out, perhaps we can manage to speak without disturbing her.’ Adelaide considered and then decided there was no help for it. She opened the door as minimally as was possible to pass through, closing it immediately behind her. She felt at a great disadvantage – untidy, unbathed, and smelling unpleasantly female.

  Captain Wescott wore a uniform of white and gold. His beard was brushed, his mustache was waxed. ‘Captain Wescott,’ he said again, bending over her hand, which was quite gloveless. ‘Miss . . .?’

  ‘Bird,’ said Adelaide, raising her chin. No, that was silly. She revised it quickly. ‘Byrd. Mrs Byrd.’

  ‘I trust you’re finding the cabin comfortable, Mrs Byrd,’ Captain Wescott said. ‘I always did.’

  Adelaide looked at him sharply but could not read his face. ‘I’m grateful to you for giving it up.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’ He released her hand. ‘I’m delighted to have you making this voyage with us. The pleasure would be even greater if you joined me for dinner later. Please say yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must dine with Miss Dixon in our room.’ There was no temptation to do otherwise. ‘But how kind of you to ask me.’

  ‘This is a great disappointment, of course. But I do understand. I only wish there was something more I could do to increase your comfort. You and your companion.’ The captain’s words were gracious, even unctuous, but his manner seemed to Adelaide a bit stiff. She guessed that gallantry toward the female passengers was something Captain Wescott saw as part of his job, but that it was not the part he enjoyed or even the part he thought he was good at. She guessed that it had rarely entailed giving up his quarters and that he was only pretending not to sulk about this. Adelaide began to like him a little for the stiffness.

  ‘I would send a doctor to attend Miss Dixon if we carried a doctor as part of our crew, but the run to Tacoma is simply not long enough to warrant one.’ He held his hands out, palms up. Empty. Nothing to hide. ‘Which brings me, Mrs Byrd, to the reason I have disturbed you. We’ve just picked up two men from a capsized canoe. Both have spent quite some time in the water. Both are chilled to the bone. I want to know how serious their condition is. Must we turn back to Port Gamble and the closest doctor? I would welcome the opinion of someone such as yourself who has had experience with the ill and the invalid.’

  The great magnetic doctress was being asked to confer. It was a good joke. It was a good thing. Adelaide had no intention of returning to Port Gamble and giving Lydia’s pursuers a second chance of catching them. ‘Poor, unfortunate men,’ she said. ‘But how lucky for them that you happened by. Of course I’ll see them. Where have they been taken?’

  ‘To the boiler room. Warmest place on the boat. I’m much in your debt,’ the captain said, waiting while she locked Lydia into the cabin.

  Adelaide followed him down a deck. Several crew members stood by the rail in the rain, leaning over the side, hauling on ropes and arguing, their faces and hands red with exertion. ‘We’re trying to save the canoe,’ Captain Wescott told her. ‘It seems to be quite a large and valuable one. Between you and me, only a madman would be out on the canal in a canoe in this wind.’ He slid the barnlike door to the cargo hold aside. The Pumpkin was carrying several bales of hay, seven sheep with black faces, three large wardrobes, and a grandfather clock. Captain Wescott allowed her to precede him through the door, then jostled by her to regain the lead, taking her past the crew’s quarters to the boiler room. ‘One of the men we rescued is a Celestial,’ he warned her just before she stepped into the room and saw for herself.

  The Chinese man lay on the floor with his back to her. Had Adelaide not been told otherwise, she would have assumed, from this angle, that he was an Indian. His hair was still braided even after everything he’d been through. Above the braid was the knot of a blue kerchief.

  The white man was thin and pale and recognized her as quickly as she recognized him. ‘Look, Chin,’ he said over the sounds of hissing steam and the scraping of the fireman’s shovel in the coal. The pale man reached across and poked at the Chinese man, who did not respond. ‘It’s that woman who took Sarah Canary. What was her name?’

  ‘B.J., this is Mrs Byrd,’ Captain Wescott said.

  ‘No,’ B.J. told him. ‘No, I don’t think so. Chin will remember.’ Chin said nothing. Neither man was dressed. They stretched across the floor in the heat of the boiler, wrapped in blankets. A partially filled whiskey bottle, obviously medicinal in intent, stood between them. Their flesh, what Adelaide could see of it, was fish-colored with cold. What dreadful luck, Adelaide thought to herself, but not resignedly. What awful luck, but she would not be thwarted by two such men, one of whom was Chinese, after all, and one of whom had to be a madman to have taken a canoe out on the canal in this weather. No one would listen to them. She focused on B.J. ‘What luck,’ he told her, with quite a different emphasis than she had been giving the words. ‘We came to rescue you and here you are. It’s so perfect.’ He smiled at her brilliantly. In the dim light provided by the glow of the coal fire, Adelaide saw the pale man’s irrational smile. ‘You do remember us, don’t you?’ he asked. His smile faded and brightened again. ‘You had a gun. You pointed it at us. That was us! You cut the bridge while we were on the other side. At the Bay View in Seabeck. You had someday written on your cheek. I kept trying to tell you.’ He squinted at her. ‘It’s gone now. Did you ever figure out what it meant?’

  Adelaide glanced nervously aside at Captain Wescott. ‘Delirium,’ she said. ‘Delirium and shock. Just as I would have expected.’

  ‘The Celestial is in even worse shape,’ Captain Wescott answered. ‘You’ll see when you attend him.’

  ‘Someday,’ said B.J. encouragingly. ‘Someday you’ll figure out what it means.’ He giggled, covering his teeth with one hand.

  Adelaide knelt by B.J. first. He shivered and smiled. She put her hand on his face. His skin was wet, but Adelaide couldn’t
tell if this was seawater or rain or sweat. Their clothes lay in a heap beside the boiler; Adelaide was glad that the task of stripping him had not been left to her. The clothes would never dry, all bunched up like they were. Really they should be rinsed of salt water and then spread flat. Adelaide wondered if this suggestion would pass for medical expertise.

  ‘Have another drink,’ she told B.J. ‘Best thing to ward off chill.’ If she could get him drunk enough, he could say anything and no one would listen. Adelaide reached for the bottle herself. She helped raise his head, tipping some whiskey into him. ‘This man will be fine,’ she told Captain Wescott. ‘Bit more whiskey to warm him up. Some rest here by the boiler. And just wait for the delirium to run its course. Which may not happen before we reach Tacoma. I really wouldn’t expect it to. But I don’t see that a doctor is necessary.’

  She turned to look at the Chinese man, whose condition was obviously more serious. His breathing was slow. His skin was quite cold when she touched him. His eyes were glazed but open, the pupils tinier than she would have expected even in this dim light. She thought that he saw her but wasn’t sure.

  Adelaide did not have a very high opinion of the Chinese. She had heard a story about the Chinese mining camps around the Comstock Lode and a slave girl named Spring Moon. Finding her life unendurable, finding one moment in this life when she was untied and unwatched, Spring Moon escaped from her owner into the hills. The Chinese miners organized to go after her, to bring her back. When she was found, her feet had frozen and had to be amputated.

  Of course, the Chinese liked their women even better without feet. Fairy feet, P. T. Barnum called the painful, crippled stumps the Chinese created from the ends of their little girls’ legs. Barnum had a fairy-footed Chinese woman in one of his exhibits. Adelaide had seen her, seated on a pedestal, right next to the Mechanical Arab, a machine that played chess. Really, what the Arabs did to their women wasn’t much better. Harems that were little more than prisons. Adelaide had read that middle-class women might be kept secluded in rooms with courtyards and gardens, but that the daughters of a wealthy man would live in rooms with windows so small and so high they would never see the outside. These were the women men really desired: imprisoned, untouched, and half-alive. Adelaide leaned toward the Chinese man, lowering her voice so that no one but him would hear her over the sounds of the boiler. ‘Very bad,’ she said. She lifted the blanket and looked at the bottoms of his heels, the cold purple color of his toes. The muscles of his legs looked stiff; his feet seemed somewhat swollen. She leaned back to his face, dropping the edge of the blanket. ‘We may have to cut them off,’ she whispered. ‘We may not be able to save them.’ His eyes focused on her eyes in confused alarm, then glazed again. ‘Your feet,’ she told him.